


In The Spotlight

by adrift_me



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mention Of Physical Torture, Post-Canon, Post-Grindelwald, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Recovery, Self-Hatred, Torture, yes there is actually some kind of happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 03:31:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9860450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrift_me/pseuds/adrift_me
Summary: "They were not looking."Or the story how Percival Graves tries to collect his shattered life back together.





	

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE, if you are easily affected by depictions of psychological or physical torture, don't read this. It may make you feel uncomfortable or cause an anxiety attack.  
> You've been warned. If you stick around, please enjoy reading my exploration of what Percival Graves' life may be post-canon.
> 
> The story is written, as always, for my awesome friend [Marion](gravesfrommacusa.tumblr.com)
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://accio-toffy.tumblr.com/) :)

When fog dissolves in his head, when his ears are not drowning in his own fears and strange whispers subdue, when a gust of fresh wind hits his face, he knows he is found.

It’s a second’s relief to take in crisp December air. It’s a flash of hope that the torment will be over soon. He craves for it, for this one second, but it’s over before he knows it. And then he is thrown back in a black whirlwind of nightmares. It comes to him that, perhaps, what found him isn’t quite friendly, isn’t inclined on helping him. Whatever it is… 

It’s hurting.

Graves hears deafening wailing in his head, it hits him, it cuts him with searing pain, like pieces of broken glass slashing his skin. Or maybe it is the glass of broken room windows, strewn in the violent wind. Whatever scattered remainders of his mind he manages to collect realise that the blackness is  _ alive _ . It wants to hurt Graves because it itself is hurting.

And without further knowledge, because he is too tired to fight, because it all might be yet another nightmare, granted him by his captor after a single breath of air, he accepts the pain like something natural. Perhaps, for all his failures and mistakes, he deserves it.

Seconds later he realises that there isn’t a single bruise on his body from the enveloping fog. It hurts, but it doesn’t do anything physical. The injuries he already possesses came from wickedness, and this flying nightmare is anything but wicked.

And he hears a voice. It’s calling for him, it’s crying,  _ Mr. Graves _ , and he cries back because he would recognize this voice in the worst nightmare. Credence’s words echo in his head and he cries and laughs because it’s all he wants to hear, he wants to know that his boy is alive and that the wickedness he himself has fallen to, didn’t get to  _ him _ .

It’s all an illusion, Graves thinks.

He feels warm. The fog envelopes him, cradles him, he leans into it and its weightless swirls surround him in a gentle embrace. It’s a comfort, a relief and he whispers apologies like it’s the only thing to do in the world.

_ I’m sorry I didn’t protect you, I’m sorry I’ve fallen to the evil. Did he hurt you, did he touch you… _

Black swirls fold into a single entity and in a blink of an eye Graves finds himself cradled by shy, untaught arms. Black sleeves are ripped, shredded into pieces, there are blood stains and scars visible through whatever fabric still remains around those arms. They fold around his chest and it’s an unbinding gentleness and forgiveness.

Credence is rocking back and forth with Graves in his arms, he whispers something Graves can’t catch, but he listens to it, he trusts this entity with all his being because nothing can be more real, more trustworthy, more pure. His own existence matters so little compared to Credence’s and if he must scramble out of the madness of captivity, it’s only to protect this boy.

Softness of Credence’s arms around him is of such comfort that for the first time in weeks Graves slides into dreamless slumber, protected by the human being he cares about most.

***

When he awakes, it occurs to him that he does actually awake. His body is covered with something heavy and soft and he feels it with his hand. It’s a blanket, warm, consoling. The room is quiet and it makes his heart beat faster. Quiet no longer agrees with him, but neither does loud. He searches his mind for whispers, but they are gone.

Only after his eyes get used to pleasant dim light, Graves realises that he is trapped no longer. He finds himself in a hospital, and his room is cozy, and there are flowers everywhere. He considers them incredibly distasteful, they make him feel mourned, but he still appreciates the idea. 

He wonders if it’s yet another illusion of the wicked games his mind is playing. He concentrates on his neck, it’s free, unbound, there is no dangerous tease of a rope around it anymore. His hands are not secured together, he wiggles his feet a little to check if there is something binding around them.

There isn’t.

He is saved. Betraying tears, something he hasn’t had for years, roll down his face and onto the pillow. He is saved! He hates the idea of  _ needing _ to be saved, but is grateful nonetheless. He pushes his hand out of the blanket, feels his hair. Ugly, cut down, chunks of what used to be a decent hairstyle now missing. He slides his hand down his face, smearing tears all over.

“Mr. Graves!”

It’s a gentle voice, a worrying voice, and its owner carefully approaches his bed. Tina. His faithful friend, a powerful auror. He is glad to see her. Surely she can’t be a vision, a lying illusion, but why, why does she have to reach out for his forehead…

“I’m sorry,” she mutters when Graves inadvertently moves his head from her hand. He doesn’t quite catch how or why he did it, but his body is terrified of the idea of  _ touching _ .

“No, my apologies,” he says hoarsely. He offers an apologetic smile and reaches out for her hand.  _ She is not an illusion _ , he rejoices. She shakes his hand and covers it with her other one. Her palms are warm and careful and gentle. And just like his smile, the way she rubs his hands is apologetic. He is confused.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Graves?” she sits by his side, a forgiving, relieved expression on her pretty face.

“Alive,” he says quite sincerely and Tina gasps out a laugh. He shifts in his bed and looks at her. She is smiling. For a moment, his own lips curve in a smile, because he likes the word “alive”. It tastes good in his mouth.

“Tina, I must ask you about what happened. Where is  _ he _ ?”

“Captured by the aurors and held in MACUSA jail. Mr. Graves, so many things happened. We didn’t know…”

She pauses and resumes after a sharp inhale.

“We didn’t know it was him. What he did to you…”

“I’m surprised none of my brilliant aurors,” his voice is proud but confused, “thought of looking for me at my own house. Were they not looking?”

Tina shifts uncomfortably in her chair. Graves looks at her posture, the way she grips on the sides of her sear, how her eyes stare on the floor. He swallows, and his mouth is suddenly dry. There is a sinking feeling in his chest,  _ they were not looking _ .

“I see.”

Talking feels unnecessary. He is smart enough to paint a picture in his head on his own. He can almost see it in his mind’s eye, he can see himself, parading through MACUSA halls, looking and sounding the same as always. He watches himself throwing smiles here and there; a word of advice to this one, a silent threatening look at another one. Not one soul recognizes that it’s a foreign body, it’s a contaminant in a perfect system he helped build.

It bothers him. It makes his guts clench, he is nauseous. If it’s so easy to replace him, is he needed at all?

“How much damage has this monster inflicted?”

“We fixed most of it. Newt helped--”

“Who?”

“Oh. Well, we had a visitor. He helped us fix everything, fix everyone’s memories. No-majs are oblivious to the destruction they witnessed. There was only one… victim, if you remember him, Mr. Graves. The Second Salemer boy. Credence Barebone.”

Graves blinks. Initial feeling of uselessness diminishes when the boy’s name is spoken. His mind pushes strange memories forward, and he can’t be certain if it’s his dreams before capture or if it’s a sick aftermath of it. Hands, arms around him, whispers in his ear…  _ I’ll save you, Mr. Graves _ . Credence’s voice.

“Victim?” Percival asks.

“He… was an Obscurial, sir. The aurors, they didn’t stop when we asked them, oh God, they didn’t stop…” she drops hot tears on her hands, held together on her knees. Graves can’t find words for comfort, for they are stuck deep in his throat and he chokes on them.  _ They killed my boy _ . 

“Mr. Graves…”

He is holding back tears that burn his eyes. It’s so much easier to stare at the ceiling than at Tina, who has no idea why he wants to get out of this bed and tear everyone apart, anyone who hurt his boy. He wants to channel all the anger burning in him into magic and let it be free, a destroying vengeful force.

But his body is heavy and foreign, he can’t make it work, he can’t move his limbs easily enough, he can’t stand up. And it occurs to him that it’s tainted, corrupted, his body did things he never would. People saw his body do those things. Credence saw him being wrong.

Nausea increases with every second. A lump, that was stuck in his throat, choking him, now wants to burst out because he is disgusted with himself. And he can’t hold it, leaning over the bed and getting rid of whatever was stuck in his weakened body that he hates now. It terrifies him. His own body is his no longer.

***

He doesn’t have many visitors in days to come. There is madame President, his unwavering friend who can no longer look him in the eye. The aurors visit once, shameful and uncertain, they are wary of Graves and their visit is but a formal occurrence. He wonders if they fear  _ him _ or whatever he was when the impostor took his place.

There is Tina, the most frequent visitor, who informs him of all that happened. She feeds him information spoon by spoon, like a child, seeing to it that he doesn’t take more than he can handle, that his body doesn’t reject pain with more pain. He is grateful and he is sorry.

He teaches himself to be strong, independent again. Slide out of the protective cocoon of a blanket, his feet on cold wooden floor. He practices simple magic spells, flicking the lights on and off, reviving flower bouquets that his room is rich with. He always uses a wand. His own is gone to never be found and Picquery brings a new one. It would barely listen to a stranger, but Graves has enough magic in his veins to make even a reluctant wand dance.

Whatever moment he has to himself and that he doesn’t spend struggling with his own nightmares, he thinks of Credence.  _ Where are you, my boy? _

A single thought of the boy makes him shudder, squeeze his eyes and try not to let hot tears run down his face. He failed himself and it doesn’t matter, but he failed Credence too. He wishes the boy was here, that he slapped him and hurt him because Graves deserves no more but pain from the dearest human being he inadvertently hurt. And he wonders if he should have died of torture than from guilt and grief, for the latter is searing hot.

When Tina explained in details what happened to the Second Salemer boy, he didn’t make a sound. When she left, he wailed like a dying wolf. He bit on the skin of his hand, leaving teeth marks all over. It draws the attention of the healers, but he writes it off on a nightmare from an afternoon nap.

In such times of despair, that taste like blood, he loses himself in thoughts of Credence. Their first meeting is like a fresh blossoming flower, it’s curious and new and promising. Next time it’s the familiarity and trust, any meeting after this one is a dream, a promise of a better life. Freedom.

Graves smiles.

He feels heavy rough hands on his shoulders, they squeeze him, feeling the bones, making him hurt. His smile fades away as he hugs himself, slouches. Fingers leave red marks on his skin that won’t go when, if, he is free. He doesn’t cry out, he must not. Fingers squeeze stronger, they push on the spots on his neck and he is choking slowly. Whisper envelopes him once again, and his blindfolded eyes can’t see where it’s coming from. Whispers like to play.  _ Pathetic. You are pathetic and your boy is revolting. You both are weak.  _ Fingers let go of Graves’ neck, he coughs, leaning forward. Fingers laugh at him, slide down his body, they want to play like the whispers, they want to make him feel wanted, but he is appalled by a mere thought about it.

_ Should I play with the boy on your behalf? Should I? Should I? _

Graves feels tears running from under the blindfold, they fall in his mouth as he growls,  _ don’t you dare _ .

He jerks away from hot hands, wandering his back. His hands are tied, he can’t prevent himself from falling face down on the cold wooden floor. His mouth hits the planks hard and a trickle of blood runs from his lips.

Graves touches them. Dry. No blood. He is not on the floor but on the edge of the hospital bed. His shoulders are clothed, there are no fingers on his spine, but he can still feel their every touch.

He embraces himself, nails digging in flesh of his arms. He wishes he could claw his skin off.

***

There are days that he feels alive again. He relishes freedom and laziness and rare winter sun that peeks through hospital windows. He takes his time for recovery, watches healers do their job, putting back together his tortured self. They give him medical concoctions that put him in a bliss of sleep, dreamless and sound. They slowly hide scars that remind of what he went through, they lessen pain in his limbs.

But it’s a shell, an outer case that hides true injuries. They ask him about nightmares, he says he has none, shaking off the flashes of black before his eyes. They want to know if he hears whispers, he happily informs them that he has none, while his head is drowning in heart pounding,  _ he thought their voices sounded like his own _ . Lies are comforting, protective, they don’t let anyone know he is broken, tortured, destroyed. Admitting to existence of his personal terrors would put his recovery back for weeks. All he wants is to get out of this constricting room that was his salvation and now is his prison.

He builds a new cage around himself, poisonous and diminishing with every second further. It’s a trap of his own mind, the way it plays tricks with him, invites unwanted hallucinations and whispers. He hates it but doesn’t want to get out, because if he does, he will state that he doesn’t deserve it. And then he thinks of Credence, who is gone to unknown places, uncared for. He thinks of Tina, who was hurt, who was threatened with death. He thinks of the entire magical population of America, their safety riding on his shoulders and expecting his surviving body to return to its duties of protection.

He hits his hand on the wall, he is crying soundlessly. When he knows he couldn’t protect himself, how can anyone expect him to be what he  _ used _ to be? He puts more faith in the power of magical concoctions of the healers than in his own magic.

***

He is free to take his leave a month later with nothing but a messed up bundle of old clothes. 

He doesn’t apparate home. If he has a tiny flame of hope to heal eventually, he knows he needs to throw himself back into the world. And he walks, heavy coat hanging off his slightly slouching shoulders.

It’s a frosty December afternoon, almost Christmas and its magic is in the air. Graves watches people pass by with boxes in the crooks of their arms. There are glittering decorations in intricate shop windows. He passes by a bakery, that is open and stuffed with people to the point of no space for new visitors. Graves inhales the spicy smell of cinnamon. It’s not his favourite thing, he is not affectionate for sweet food in general, but this smell feels alive and he can bear it for a moment longer.

He walks the street, sticking to shadows. His coat is strikingly black against them, he draws glances of oblivious no-majs. How happy they must be, their brains clear off the terrors that happened just a few weeks ago. He wonders if he could be obliviated too, plunged into deep unknowing, being himself again. He can do it right now, just pull out the wand, put it to your temple and drag out any nightmare you wish. His eyes would unfocus for a mere second, and the next one would make him good old Graves again. Ignorant of pain, unaware of why his body is so scarred and maimed. Why his hair is no longer sleeked back in fashion. Why Credence doesn’t wait for him on the corner of the salem church.

He stops in his tracks when it occurs to him where he walked to. The groups of no-maj passers by ignore the wrecks of what used to be a church. MACUSA aurors must have enchanted it, left the place untouched for them to investigate. For Graves to investigate, when he returns.

And he takes his time, finding his way in the ruins of where evil resided. It looks cleaner than ever with its dust everywhere and the absence of a monstrous human. There are wooden debris, clay pieces, metal cutlery, dirty sheets of paper. The place is completely deserted, covered partly in black residue, a trail of an Obscurial. 

He follows it upstairs, walking next to it, as if the trace of magic is showing him around. It reveals all the pain he only suspected, it recovers the truth of the purity and evil that resided in this house. Evil that hated purity, that suspected it could be “corrupted” with magic.

Graves turns around abruptly. Imagination, or reality, lure him with non-existent shadow, lurking in the corner of his eye. His breathing becomes uneven, raspy, he moves heavy collar of his coat away to breathe easily. He is dizzy and his hands clutch on the stairs railing. Won’t fall. He runs back to the entrance, holding briefly on things around him: an old overturned table, the back of a chair, a dusty cupboard.

But it’s another illusion, another lie, another trick. He leans on the slanting door and lets out a small cloud of steam from his mouth. One hand holding onto the doorway, another pushing on temples, hiding his tearing up eyes from the world of unseeing no-majs. A whimpering noise breaks at the back of his throat. 

He collects all what’s left of his strength and forces himself through apparition.

*** 

Graves hates his home. Polluted, poisoned, twisted.

He spends many days in convincing himself of safety. He inspects every room, every corner, he throws out things that never belonged to him, he gets rid of things that did. Tina brings Queenie to help and both girls help Graves remove haunting shadows of terrors he was dragged through. He insists on scrubbing blood off the floor on his own. He wants to see it gone with his own effort. They don’t mind.

He keeps all window drapes drawn, they are drowning the rooms in thick soot of darkness. He avoids light as if it stings, he feels bare when light shines upon him.

The door creaks, opening. It cuts through darkness like a knife through soft butter. He feels bare, his skin scarred and ugly, he wants to hide, but his only refuge, that is darkness, has been taken away by the damn door. Light steps are quick and loud on wooden planks, he hears his own shoes clinking with its heels. Hands shake him roughly for a second and he is taken out of a mad limbo only to see a sweep of blonde hair across his face.

Percival looks at the door. It’s closed. He rushes to it, pushes the handle to check if it’s locked thoroughly. He pulls out his wand and says “ _ Colloportus _ ”. The door makes no noise, but Percival knows it won’t open if someone tried.

He uses the wand to flicker on the candles, scattered around the room. Wandless magic is no longer a trademark of his, for just like his body, it was stolen by another. Tainted. Using a wand reassures him that he still has magic, that even if it flows through veins of a hated body, his mind has control over it. And maybe magic understands for it never leaves his command, it follows his any whim without hesitation.

But he hates it, because despite obeying him now, magic failed to protect him and his most precious person in the world at a time of greatest need.

Graves sits on the sofa, face hidden behind a shaking hand, and sobs uncontrollably.

***

Sleep doesn’t come easily to shadows. Whatever remains of an auror Percival Graves, has turned into a sleepless shadow that fears itself. His hands are gripping the blanket and he stares at an invisible corner of his room. He can’t close his eyes. If he does, when he does, he sees his own face and it sneers back, it whispers terrors in his ear. It never stops, it has a mouthful of lies and truths, of things Graves won’t admit. Those whispers are the sounds of silence and they surround his head like fog. They are always steady, never too loud or too quiet, but like drops, falling on top of your head, they drive him insane.  _ Credence likes you _ , says his face.  _ They all like you _ , says his face.  _ They like how you handle the cases _ , says his face and there is shuffling - the face closes nearer.  _ Madame President complimented you on dealing with miss Goldstein’s problem _ , says his face.  _ She is quite grateful for your service,  _ says his face, and Graves cries out,  _ please, stop _ .

It’s quiet again. His hand reaches out to feel the air and finds nothing but emptiness. He buries his soundless cries in a pillow.

***

He reminds himself daily, perhaps unintentionally, that only a stranger recognized a fraud in his body. The reminders of it are scattered across his life: his steps, his words, his voice, his looks. He doesn’t feel right anymore. He doesn’t wear his old clothes, because they were on another body. He catches distrustful glances and hears whispers outside his own head, whispers that wonder if he ever truly returned from captivity. It’s a cruel game of pretending and he’s always been good at it. Now it takes only a little more effort to grant fake smiles, to forge comforting speeches. He wants to make them believe that he is his own again.

Sometimes he wonders if Percival Graves has ever existed.

What is it like, wearing another’s skin? Having thoughts and being unsure if they come from your own mind or if a stranger placed them there for you. Flinching and shying away from any touch, because you know it’s meant for the body you are trapped in, not yourself. 

“Percival…”

He flinches.

Picquery’s robes flash before his eyes, golden and royal blue in a beautiful mix, but dull in the dim light of Graves’ dusty office. The only decoration it will now ever have is a visiting friend, meaning well.

“You are staying late. Everyone has already left, you should go home too,” she speaks gently, fondly. He gives her a weak smile. 

“I know,” he clears his throat. “I wanted to make sure I finished these.”

His hand pushes a stack of reports away. It’s thinner than it would have been a year ago, but reports themselves are longer and darker. The criminal may be sitting in custody, but his followers are as active as ever.

“Percival, it’s only been two months. You pulled through recovery as fast as I expected, but I wanted you to stay home longer. You need time to heal.”

She covers his scarred hand with hers. It’s warm and soothing but he can’t help but slide his hand away.

“It’s a fancy way of telling me I’m no longer fit for the job.”

“It’s not what I said, Percival.”

He half-smiles. He doesn’t look up at madame President, his eyes pausing at the majestic collar of her robes. He quietly studies intricate weaving of golden threads, it’s easier to look at them than at the woman before him. Her face is but a blurry spot and he knows if he looks up, it might not be her at all.

A mocking grin on her face, she grits her teeth and leans in, and--

“Don’t!” he cries out, jumping off his chair and stumbling backwards into the glass of the shelves. There is noise in his head, a mix of whispers and of the shattering of magical trinkets behind the glass. He shakes his head violently and squeezes his eyes shut tight. A shuddering sob escapes his mouth and he closes it with a hand, because he  _ must not make a sound _ .

He wants to be deaf to never hear the whispers again, but silence screams louder than the dreaded whispers.

It takes a few seconds to calm and realise that Seraphina is standing across his table, concerned. Her eyes are weary and she presses her lips for a moment, intending to but never saying anything.

Graves’ hand rushes to tug at a tie - there’s nothing. Shirt collar unbuttoned, expensive scorpion collar pin gone. There’s only a noose, rough and invisible, pulling at his neck.  _ Why won’t this body breath? _

He places hand on his chest, maybe warmth of his flesh would calm the heart. It is beating madly in his rib cage and its pounding still echoes in his ears.

“Percival, let me help you.”

Seraphina approaches him carefully and steadily, like a wounded animal. He sees her in clear sight and she looks in his face earnestly, like a friend, like someone he can trust.

He allows her to fix his collar.

“You have changed,” she says quietly. He smirks. He laughs, shaking his head and backing away from her. Suddenly his fist hits the desk, shaking up ink bottles with clinking.

“ _ Now _ you notice?” he thunders, pointing an accusing finger at the woman. His voice is a whisper now. “Tell, me, Seraphina, tell me like a friend, how could you not recognize him? We’ve known each other for so many years, fought side by side. Am I so much alike to this monster? Is this who you see when you look at me now?”

She escapes his intense gaze by staring at the floor. He feels infuriated, he is burning inside, he can’t understand. He questions his own existence, does he even have a right to stand in this office? All the magical trinkets he’s collected through his years of service seem to stare at him in hostility. They hiss at him, they whisper at him,  _ pathetic, powerless, you failed _ … 

His eyes are wide and staring into nowhere. He awakens with a flinch, finding Seraphina still staring at the floor.

Consumed by rage and desperation, Graves grabs his new heavy coat off the chair and walks out, leaving madame President behind.

***

He goes back to work the following day. He fixes the broken glass in his office, reads through the reports coming from Europe. He reads old reports that his captor collected. He finds a whole file of Tina’s reports on Second Salem, a variety of notes on Credence. He pokes through them and hatred burns in his chest once more. The bastard who stole his life knew everything. Used everything. Destroyed everything.

To stay alive and retain his sanity, hide it from ensnaring darkness at the back of his mind, Graves turns to survival. 

Mornings are tough because they are not a routine anymore. It’s a struggle, making your legs walk, your eyes open after a sleepless night. And when they do open, Graves has to stare at a face in his mirror. He is not sure if it’s the face of his body or just a portrait that might sneer any second.

He runs a hand over his hair. He used to like it, and now he wishes he could rip them out with his own hands. Vanity used to make him smile whenever he caught a glimpse of his appearance in reflections. These days he preferred to forget about the way his mouth curves and how dark his eyes look.

Opening a shelf behind the mirror reveals emptiness with just a few bottles. There are circles of soap scum and water, shadows of what used to fill the shelf before. A razor blade is gone from an empty jar in the corner.

He warms up the bowl with water and moves his hands in it. Graves is careful, soaking his palms in warmth, bringing them up to his face and moving them down his face. His hands are shaking as his trembling fingers hover over lower eyelids and cheekbones. His fingers slide and he feels the tingling of a stubble, the scar on his right cheek.

_ Gasp. _ His face burns, but his lips are pressed tight. He won’t let out a single scream, even if his cheek is dripping with blood. He can’t see it, but he feels a stream of liquid running down his face and falling on his knees.

He looks up in the mirror. The scar is healed, only a thin dull red streak serves as a reminder of the pain it used to bring. It reminds Graves that this face might just be his own, for it’s damaged, maimed, no longer beautiful. His captor’s vanity exceeded his own and it wouldn’t leave ugly marks of giving up on this face.

***

He wakes up in the middle of the night, still trapped within the thralls of a nightmare. He remembers none of it, but his madly beating heart is a hint enough. He clutches at his chest, another hand ruffling through hair that is sticking to his sweaty forehead.

He feels a breeze of fresh spring air. It carries the smell of flowers and April showers in his room and he inhales it deep, allowing it to take all the space in his lungs.

As he slides from under the blanket, his foot hits something sharp and he scrambles back away on his bed. Small droplets of blood smear the sheets and he cradles his hurt foot. It’s a momentary blackness of mind,  _ is he trapped again _ , but he collects himself, pushes himself off another side and investigates. The window glass is shattered and its glittering pieces are covering the floor of the entire room. Amongst the shards of glass and black residue lies a black figure, lifeless at first sight, sleeping at the second one.

Graves falls on his knees beside it, forgetting all about the sharp pieces of glass piercing his skin. His hands reach for a black mess of short hair, they follow the black locks down the forehead, they caress the cheek and reveal a pale, tired face of Credence. He blinks sleepily, his eyes focusing as much as darkness allows. Graves’ mouth is slightly open as he watches his wonderful boy rise abruptly, looking around, finding Graves’ face and looking intently in it. He doesn’t believe, nor does Graves. He thinks that for both of them it’s a mutual dream, a thing to share before the sun rises.

He doesn’t want to waste it. The body he hated, the body he’s learnt to accept begs for comfort and contact, and he spreads his arms welcomingly, invitingly. His arms wrap around a body that craves for touches as much as he does, a body that leans in without hesitation, allows to be kissed and caressed. Graves hopes it’s madness, because its sweetness is addicting and he would hate to let go. His hand grips on the boy’s hair, he nuzzles in the crook of Credence’s neck. His eyes are shut tight because they are betraying with stinging and he’d hate to drop any tears on Credence’s precious skin. He pulls back to cup the boy’s face, catch his lips, and he almost faints from their taste, from how gentle they are, how perfectly they fit.

He moves Credence closer, holding him, rocking him, kissing him as slowly as possible because why rush, there is a whole night ahead for them. And if Graves is lucky, there may be a whole eternity. All better than being stuck in a world that decided he has no place in it any longer.

But when the sun rises, he finds himself quite alive and sane, lying in bed with Credence by his side, his warmth reflecting on Percival’s skin. Sunlight plays on shattered glass and the wind is still merrily dancing around the bedroom, playing with curtains and clothes hanging off the chair.

Graves turns on his side, facing Credence. He wishes to caress his face, to bring him closer, but he fears that one single touch would make this illusion go away. Dissolve in the air, merge with the darkness that has been consuming Graves for the past few months. Terror clenches his heart like steel rings, squeezes it and steals breath from his chest.  _ Please _ , he begs,  _ please _ . But pounding in his ears is strong and deafening and he can almost feel the pressure on his wrists, they are squeezed and clenched and the searing pain is unbearable, but he  _ won’t make a sound _ .

“Percival, please!”

Credence’s voice knocks him out of consuming terror and he finds the boy staring at him.

“My boy…” he whispers, falling back on the pillow. “It won’t stop. It will never stop.”

“Shhh,”  Credence lies next to him, his fingers trembling, uncertain, but hopeful when they approach Graves’ face and trace the scars on his tormented skin. The man closes his eyes, his concentration on careful fingertips that study him, make him hurt less, make him braver.

“Shhh…” Graves hears Credence’s shushing, careful, like a lullaby, and he submits to its gentle intention. 

If he is indeed going mad, let this be his only solution.


End file.
